


A Dwarf's Way

by beetle



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: LOTR, M/M, The Hobbit - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:48:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the LJ hobbit_kink prompt: 'Bilbo asks Bofur why he was so forgiving after accidentally insulting him with the "you have no home!" piece and why he was so keen on Bilbo not going. Anon just really wants flustered!Bofur trying to beat around the bush and knowing!Bilbo who is like "i kno u like me just say it."'</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dwarf's Way

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: So not mine, it's criminal . . . figuratively speaking, of course.

“Hullo.”  
  
Bilbo looks up from watching his own furry feet trek across springy grass. Trekking next to him, smiling bemusedly at the idyllic patch of forest they find themselves in—although, after the hospitality of the Goblin-king, anyplace would seem idyllic—is Bofur.  
  
“Oh. Hullo,” Bilbo says, smiling, himself. He goes on to say something else—then realizes he has nothing else  _to_  say. He's unusually at a loss for words, chit-chat, and small talk (all that's left to him, it seems, is Large Talk, and this is hardly the time for that), and so, falls silent again, frowning down at his feet. They now have companions: a pair of dusty, rugged Dwarf boots.  
  
But despite having looked away, Bilbo can feel Bofur still smiling that wide smile at him, dimples likely flashing. Which makes Bilbo smile again, just a little. And it recalls to mind something that's missing from that smile.  
  
“I'm sorry about your pipe,” Bilbo finds himself saying, glancing up at Bofur again to confirm that yes, the Dwarf is without his pipe.  
  
Bofur waves a hand dismissively. “Ah, I'll make another, soon enough. Though it feels odd to not have it, in mouth or in hand. Damned Goblins.”  
  
“They  _were_  quite an unpleasant lot,” Bilbo agrees, falling silent once more. Bofur seems to have run out of chit-chat, as well—an impossibility, Bilbo would have once said—and looks to be content to walk with Bilbo in silence. And so they do, for nearly a mile.  
  
Bilbo's smile widens. Throughout their journey, Bofur has always ridden or walked with him at let once per day. Granted, he takes turns riding and walking next to  _everyone_ , even Thorin, but not usually on a daily basis.  
  
It's a curious thing, all told, and Bilbo finds himself glancing at Bofur again. This time, he catches Bofur staring at him, that wide smile gone wistful and a little dreamy. Then Bofur's looking away, clearing his throat and turning red.  
  
“Em,” he says, as if he's finally found something else to say. But nothing else comes out. At least at first. Then, Bofur brightens rather desperately and says: “So, lovely weather we're having, eh?”  
  
Bilbo blinks. In all their travels together, they've never once talked about the weather. Even when it was horrible. “Er, yes. I suppose. Better now that we're out of the mountains.”  
  
“Aye. Nothing but wind and rain, giants and Goblins, those mountains.”  
  
“Too true.”  
  
And there, the conversation falls flat again.  
  
Bilbo once more finds himself contemplating Large Talk, since it's been on his mind since after the Eagles dropped them off and Bilbo'd made sure Thorin was still alive. Well, to be honest, it'd been on his mind since before the Wargs attacked them. Since Thorin had asked why he'd bothered to stay with the fellowship.  
  
Large Talk, indeed. Seemingly too large to be left alone for long.  
  
“So,” Bilbo says, letting the word trail off into another silence before continuing. “About what I said before. In the mountains. . . .” off of Bofur's quick, questioning glance, Bilbo adds: “Before the Goblins captured us. About you and the fellowship not h-having homes—“  
  
“Oh,  _that_.” Bofur's smile turns wry, and those dimples deepen. The deepening of said dimples make Bilbo's stomach come over very strange, all of a sudden. “What about it?”  
  
“Well.” Bilbo clears  _his_  throat can feel those curious dark eyes on him. “I just wanted to apologize for—well, for what I said and the way I said—”  
  
“Apology accepted,” Bofur replies instantly.  
  
The silence that follows is redolent of Bilbo's complete puzzlement. “Really?”  
  
“And truly.”  
  
Bilbo actually stops walking. At least till Bifur bumps into him them shoves past him, grumbling. Bofur stops, too, and glances back at Bilbo, still smiling. “Is something the matter, Master Baggins?”  
  
Blushing, himself, Bilbo quickly starts moving again before Gandalf, who's bringing up the rear, stumbles over him. “Nothing, just—you're really going to—simply forgive what can only be classified as the most tactless thing I've ever said?”  
  
When Bilbo draws even with Bofur, the Dwarf claps his back heartily, and his hand stays where it landed for longer than is necessary. Bilbo, without thinking, moves just a little closer to Bofur, so the Dwarf doesn't have to reach so far.  
  
“I, er, suppose considering how you stuck by us, and went and saved my king's life so bravely, I can overlook even  _the most tactless_  thing you've ever said.” Bofur says nonchalantly. And though this explanation rings true, it doesn't feel like a  _complete_  explanation. But then Bofur claps Bilbo's back again, and Bilbo elbows him back in his rather awkward way. He's not used to interacting with such rugged individuals as Dwarves, but is trying very hard to make up for that fact and  _blend in_. “But really, Master Baggins, it wasn't a  _terrible_  thing you said. Tactless? Maybe, but terrible? Of course not. And it was, for one thing,  _true_.”  
  
“Mm.” Bilbo stares off into the distance grimly. “But not true for much longer. Not if I can help it.”  
  
After a few moments, Bofur's hand slides up to his shoulder and squeezes it. “You've a good heart,” he says quietly. “And a brave one. Gandalf was right to insist on you.”  
  
Bilbo blushes, and asks the other question that's been on his mind for the past few hours. “Is, er, that why you didn't want me to go? Because of Gandalf?”  
  
“I beg your pardon?”  
  
“Back in the mountains . . . before I said what I said . . . you told me I belonged with the fellowship. That I had a place in it.”  
  
“And you do,” Bofur avers firmly. “I've always thought so.”  
  
“And why is that?” Bilbo ventures, and Bofur looks momentarily panicked. But only momentarily. Then he just looks somewhat aggrieved, and at a loss for words again.  
  
“I suppose that's because . . . well . . . I've . . . always been an excellent judge of character! Yes!” Bofur's arms slides around Bilbo's shoulders quite chummily. Almost possessively, in fact. “That's it! If there's one thing I pride myself on, it's being an excellent judge of character! And you, my  _dear_  Hobbit, have character in spades!”  
  
“I see. . . .” Bilbo says, smiling. And he thinks he  _does_  see. And  _not_  just what he  _wants_  to see. “And is that why you tried to convince me to come along by reminding me that a dragon was a 'furnace with wings'?”  
  
Bofur really turns red, now. “Oh. Er . . . that was just a, em, test. To make sure you were made of sterner stuff than you seemed. And I must say, you almost didn't pass it, what with the fainting and all . . . but pass, you did. Proving, of course, that my initial assessment of you was spot on.”  
  
“Oh, indeed?” Bilbo looks over at Bofur, incredulous and suddenly exasperated. Finally, he pushes Bofur's arm off his shoulders and stops dead in his tracks. Bofur immediately stops, too, this time. Dwalin, Oin, Gloin, and Gandalf simply walk around them, Gandalf advising them: _don't fall too far behind!_  
  
Bilbo puts his hands on his hips, shaking his head. “You're really something, you know?”  
  
Bofur grins. “As a matter of fact, I  _do_  know.”  
  
“I—that's not the way I meant, and you know it!” Bilbo rolls his eyes briefly Havens-ward. “What I mean is, you'll say  _anything_  but what you really mean. Anything but the truth!”  
  
Now, Bofur's frowning. “What? Where's all  _this_  coming from?”  
  
“It's coming from the fact that you just won't admit that you—well, you  _like_  me!” Bilbo finally sputters out.  
  
Bofur pales, then turns redder than ever. He even he takes a step small back. “I, er, what, now?”  
  
“You  _like_  me!” Bilbo nods, certain, now, that he's absolutely right. “You can't, for whatever stubborn, Dwarf reason, admit that you like me and have grown fond of me. That I'm not completely unsuitable for, I dunno, actual friendship or—mmph!”  
  
“Or?” Bofur asks softly, when he reluctantly removes his lips from Bilbo's. Bilbo, meanwhile, is standing stock-still, arms akimbo, eyes closed, lips puckered and half open, exactly as they'd been when he was speaking.  
  
Finally, after a few seconds, Bilbo's eyes flutter open and his mouth closes. Then opens. Then closes again. “Or . . . I was g-going to say 'or at least as a brother-in-arms.'”  
  
“Ah.” Bofur says, his eyes—which had been all Bilbo could see, they were so close—getting farther away as he takes a few steps back again. That perpetual smile is gone, as are the dimples, and Bofur is looking everywhere but Bilbo's eyes. “I see.”  
  
“Oh, no, you don't,” Bilbo says, reaching out and grabbing hold of Bofur's tunic, and yanking him forward again. It's more a testament to the Dwarf's ambivalence than Hobbit strength that he goes so easily. “First, you won't admit that you like me, now, you're not willing to take a chance and admit that you  _like_ -like me—are you  _the most_  chicken-hearted Dwarf in the world, or am I just  _that_  intimidating?”  
  
Bofur glares. “I'm not . . .  _chicken-hearted_  and you're  _certainly_  not intimidating. I just . . . don't wear my heart on my sleeve. That's not a Dwarf's way,” he says gruffly, but his his eyes dart to Bilbo's lips when he licks them. “It's not a Dwarf's way to admit that he can't stop thinking about someone, and that he worries more about that someone's safety than his own. That he's composed sonnets to that someone's mouth and eyes, and the way the firelight reflects off his face of an evening.  
  
“It is not the way of a Dwarf to say that he thinks . . . he's fallen in love. And with, of all unlikely creatures, a  _Hobbit_. Even when that Hobbit is one of the bravest people he's ever had the honor of meeting.” Bofur sighs, frustration and exasperation warring in that soft exhalation. “Nor is it a Dwarf's way to lose his heart so completely . . . and not even want it back.”  
  
Bilbo's mouth drops open again. His mind has completely gone blank, his stomach is in knots, and his heart is beating far too quickly for his comfort, what with him being at rest. He can't look away from Bofur's dark, dark eyes and what's writ in them too large to be hidden anymore.  
  
Rallying from his stupefied state, Bilbo lifts his chin and says the very first thing that comes into his mind.  
  
“Then I declare Dwarves to be the most stubborn, stoic, un-romantic people on Middle Earth. Especially the one in front of me.” He yanks Bofur closer still, till those dark, surprised eyes are all he can see, once more. “But you've never lacked for bravery before now, Master Bofur, so if you don't kiss me again, I shall be very disappointed.”  
  
Bofur lets out another breath and leans even closer, until their noses brush and Bilbo's eyes close. “Well, I wouldn't want to disappoint you,” he murmurs, just before his lips brush Bilbo's.  
  
Then they're doing more than brushing them: pressing against them, demanding entry of them . . . Bilbo laughs into the kiss as Bofur's mustaches tickle his face just a bit. But the laugh quickly turns into a moan when Bofur's tongue strokes against his own. His hands slide up Bofur's chest and over his broad shoulders, till his arms are wrapped around Bofur's neck. Heavy, hesitant hands settle on Bilbo's waist, then slide around to the small of his back.  
  
“I . . . like you, Master Baggins,” Bofur exhales when they come up for air, some time later. He takes another deep breath and squares his shoulders. “I like you a good deal more than is wise. Not as a friend, and not as a brother-in-arms. At least not  _just_.”  
  
Bilbo opens his eyes and sighs, smiling up into Bofur's eyes. “There, now. Was that so hard?” He laughs when Bofur huffs. “Well, I find myself growing rather fond of you, too, Master Bofur. And _not_  just as a friend or a brother-in-arms. It's been so long, I didn't recognize the feeling for what it was, but I . . . I certainly do, now.”  
  
Bofur's smile crinkles the corners of his eyes, and Bilbo leans back a little, just so he can see those dimples. Once more, his stomach goes absolutely haywire, only this time, it takes his heart along for the ride.  
  
“When you smile, I find I don't quite know what to do with myself,” he admits quietly, and Bofur pulls him close again, one hand sliding up Bilbo's back, the other down to the curve of his arse.  
  
“It's a good thing, then, that I know  _exactly_  what to do,” he says firmly, kissing Bilbo again. This one is slower than the last kiss, but more demanding. Unfortunately it doesn't last as long, because someone clears their throat, startling them out of it.  
  
Arms still around each other, Bilbo and Bofur look over at Dwalin, who's smirking knowingly at them.  
  
“Well, well,” he says, nodding and crossing his arms. “Looks like Balin, Nori, Bifur, Bombur, and I win the bet, after all.”  
  
Bilbo's mouth drops open. “'Bet'? I beg your pardon?”  
  
“What bet? There's been betting going on that  _I_  didn't know about?” Bofur demands disbelievingly, his arms tightening around Bilbo in a possessive squeeze. Dwalin laughs, loud and heartily. “What on?”  
  
Dwalin's canny eyes dart between the two of them. “What on, indeed, Master Bofur. Can you not guess?”  
  
Bofur still seems to be in the dark, but Bilbo shakes his head in sudden understanding. “You . . . you bet on Bofur and I becoming . . . acquainted?”  
  
“Oh, don't be so delicate about it! You two have been dancing around each other since you met!” Dwalin glances pointedly at Bilbo's backside, where one of Bofur's hands still rests. “Staring holes into one another and fretting over one another . . . frankly, I'm surprised it took you  _this_ long to . . .  _become acquainted_.”  
  
And with that, Dwalin turns away, laughing and marching back down the path the fellowship had taken. “Carry on. But don't tarry too much longer, or Gandalf will come back for you, himself.”  
  
And with that, he's gone.  
  
Bilbo and Bofur look at each other, staring for long moments. Then Bofur shrugs and smiles, squeezing Bilbo's arse. “Well. You heard the man.”  
  
He leans in to kiss Bilbo, who evades the kiss. “Bofur! What about Gandalf?”  
  
“Oh, I don't think I want to kiss him, at all.”  
  
“No—you know what I mean! If we don't catch up, Gandalf will come looking for us.” Bilbo shudders. “What if he catches us . . .  _doing things_?”  
  
His grin turning wicked, Bofur rolls his eyes. “I'm sure Gandalf wants to catch us  _doing things_ about as much as  _we_  want to be caught doing them. Which is to say not at all. We've got time. Plenty of it. Now, about those things we were going to do. . . .”  
  
Bofur pulls Bilbo flush against him and leans in to nibble his ear. Bilbo moans, his body going limp in Bofur's arms. But Bofur holds him up easily, kissing his way down Bilbo's neck as one hand comes up to undo the top button of Bilbo's shirt.  
  
“But Bofur—“  
  
“ _Bilbo._ ” Straightening up, Bofur looks into Bilbo's eyes, his own heated, but still merry. Always merry. “ _Sonnets._ ”  
  
Blushing again, Bilbo smiles shyly. “I'd . . . like to hear them, someday.”  
  
“You will,” Bofur promises gently, cupping Bilbo's face in his hand and ghosting his thumb across Bilbo's lips. “Every ghastly one.”  
  
“Oh, I'm sure they're not  _ghastly_ —mmph!“  
  
Bofur shuts Bilbo up by the simple expedient of kissing all the words from his lips and the thoughts from his brain. As a result, when Gandalf finds them there half an hour later, disheveled and only half dressed, neither of them has the wit to come up with a convincing excuse as to why, or even a decent apology for holding up the company.


End file.
